And all it takes to save a life
by Marayanna
Summary: Arslan gets poisoned by Andragoras. His friends nurse him back to health. "When he woke, he felt ill, deeply ill, hot and dizzy as if he was gripped by one of those winter diseases that left people lying in beds for weeks, delirious, with aching muscles and pounding heads."


Maybe his father planned this all along. Or maybe it was when Narsus and Daruyn blatantly disobeyed his orders and followed Arslan into exile, that the scales of the king's wrath were tipped.

But what did it matter what his reasons were, when he decided to commit the unthinkable? His hatred and disdain consumed him so completely, that he wasn't afraid to commit even the greatest of crimes. Even assassination. Even poisoning.

And how could Arslan expect it? Yes, he was used to king's scorn, used to disdain. But cold blooded assassinations were not something he was raised to look out for, in Pars, where the glory of all-out battle was everything young boys were taught to desire.

So he didn't realize it immediately. He dined with his friends, as was his custom, unimaginable in the capital where people rarely were granted the privilege of sitting in the presence of royalty. He ate and drank everything the servants brought to the table, and though it was not as good as Elam's cooking, long weeks of hard travels made him appreciate whatever food he managed to get.

It was only when sudden pang in his stomach made him gasp in pain, did he realize something was very, very wrong. The world shifted and, fighting for balance, he gripped the edge of the table, his other hand going to his his throat, suddenly constricting, making him unable to speak, unable to _breathe._ In an instant he was surrounded by his friends, their hands helping to keep him upright, their shouts for guards, for _help_ , but his vision began to darken as fighting for breath became impossible.

And then, suddenly, there was pain, _so much pain, how could there be so much pain-_

And as another wave of agony hit him, his world went dark and he stopped feeling anything at all.

.

When he woke, he felt ill, deeply ill, hot and dizzy as if he was gripped by one of those winter diseases that left people lying in beds for weeks, delirious, with aching muscles and pounding heads.

But it was not a mere sickness, and through the bleary eyes he could see Daryun and Narsus talking in the corner of the room, faces pale and grim. He tried to move, to say something, but the moment he opened his mouth he knew it was hopeless. It was as if some painful bulge has grown in his throat overnight, choking him. And yet his movement must have alerted Daryun, loyal Daryun, who always seemed to be somehow attuned to his needs, because the knight rushed to his bed with relieved "My prince!" on his lips. Arslan tried to focus his gaze on the man, but found he wasn't quite able to.

"Yor Highness" Narsus was by his side right after Daryun. "It's good to see you awake. The medic should be here shortly, to examine you again."

Arslan nodded as much as his stiff muscles allowed him to. He turned his gaze back to Daryun, trying to convey hundreds of questions he wasn't able to voice.

"It appears you have been poisoned" the man answered, meeting his expectations, as usual. There was something raw in his voice, something foreign in his eyes. "We hope we stopped the poison from spreading for now, and Farangis searches for the cure as we speak. As for the culprit…" he stopped, gritting his teeth. "Please, bear with this situation just a little bit longer. We will make sure everything ends well"

Arslan blinked at him, weariness slowly pulling him under again. His thoughts were heavy and he found he needed few moments to comprehend everything the knight was saying. And even then, he managed only a small nod before darkness claimed him again.

.

It was pain that woke him next.

He groaned. What was happening? Was there a battle? Was he wounded and lost consciousness? He forced his eyes open, searching for soldiers and horses and blood, but there was only a room, still and quiet.

The world was swimming in front of him and the shapes the light made on the wall – why was there a wall? – made him nauseous.

His body was heavy, so heavy, and his mind even more so. Suddenly, a face appeared in front of him, and he strained his memory for a name – Elam, yes, Elam, what was he doing here on the battlefield? Was he injured as well?

The boy reached for something and the next thing Arslan knew there was a cloth, cool and wet, pressed to his forehead. There was another voice and Elam answered it, yet Arslan could make out only bits and pieces, hearing everything as though through layers of thick cotton.

Dark skinned man – the owner of the other voice? – appeared in his vision, some sort of bowl in his hands. When he moved closer, Arslan smelled food and the wave of nausea caused him to grimace and turn away, but Elam gripped his arm with a surprising strength.

"You Highness, please" his eyes were glistening, and for the first time since Arslan knew him, he looked truly afraid. "It's been days. You have to eat, or you'll starve. You have to eat…"

And all Arslan could think of, was that he didn't want to cause him more grief. So he didn't protest when they helped him sit, even as he groaned again, feeling every part of his body strain painfully. But dark skinned man – Jaswant, he remembered now – didn't take the bowl away, and Elam had a look of grim determination on his face. So he opened his mouth and managed to swallow a few spoons of the broth before the strain on his body became too much. They let him lay down again and he all but collapsed on the bed, panting from exertion, and it only took a few seconds before he was dead to the world again.

.

He was drifting between clarity and feverish dreams after that. There were voices around him, some louder and some softer, coming and going like waves of the sea, rocking him in his delusions.

When he opened his eyes, sometimes he could make out shapes of the people he knew.

He saw Alfreed, and Farangis, discussing something, determined, walking out of-

He saw his father glowering over him, and his mother, unmoved and uncaring. He wanted to reach out to her, to hold her hand, but-

He heard Rajendra's laughter and Hilmes' shouting, and music he thought he remembered that reached for him and-

He saw soldiers he sent to their deaths, and he wanted to tell them, _I'm so sorry,_ tell them, _I promise-_

And through it all, he felt gentle hands touching him, cleaning sweat from his brow, lifting him up and easing herbal potions through his parched lips.

.

There were moments of clarity as well.

The nausea seemed ever-present and yet once became so unbearable he woke, only to turn on his bed and empty his stomach on the floor. At once, there was somebody by his side holding him up, and somebody else putting bucket under his face. It was messy and disgusting, and when he finished he felt bone-weary and dirty.

"Here, Your Highness" Farangis was saying and Arslan realized she was talking all this time, easing him through this revolting ordeal, supporting him as much as she could. She held a cup of water to his lips, and he drank gratefully.

He looked to the side and jerked, surprised. There stood Gieve, with his fashionable clothes and tastefully done hair, with stenching bucket in his hands, and Arslan felt sick again, because it seemed wrong, so wrong.

"I'm sorry" he uttered, his voice not locked in his throat anymore, it seemed. And yet it was a useless mercy, as his whole body ached still.

"Don't worry about that, my prince" Farangis soothed, "And please, bear with it just a little longer. We _will_ heal you"

And there was something steely yet desperate in her voice, but as much as he ached to comfort her, he didn't know how, so he tried to smile and whispered a useless "Thank you" as he was pulled under again.

.

He woke with a scream.

He was burning, burning, _burning._ He wanted to peel his skin off, he wanted to curse and to cry, but most of all he just wanted it to _stop._

He reached in the darkness, hoping for someone, _anyone_ to help him. And suddenly, warm arms were gripping him, allowing him to clutch to them and weep, as waves of pain rocked through him.

"Daryun" he choked out, and the embrace only tightened.

"I'm right here" he said, and Arslan wondered why, because where else could the knight possibly be. "It's almost over. We'll make it, my prince. _We'll make it_ "

.

The world was gray in the silent hours of the early morning. Arslan furrowed his brow at the ceiling, trying to gather his thoughts, which were clear and sharp for the first time in what seemed like days. He tried to sit, and though no pain came, he still couldn't support his weight fully and fell back on the bed. He was weak, weak and exhausted, but somehow, miraculously, alive.

He jumped a bit when he heard a faint snore, and turned to see Daryun sleeping on the floor to his right. Few feet away from him, Alfreed and Elam were sitting by the wall, both cooped up in blankets, leaning on each other.

When he turned his head to the left, he saw Narsus, leaning on the armrest of the chair he was sitting in, face hidden by his hair, strangely unkept. Jaswant was spread out on the hard floor nearby, as if it was perfectly fine place to sleep. Farangis' back was propped on the door, and thought she was asleep as well, nobody would be able to enter without her knowledge.

Gieve was-

Gieve was sitting on the bed, near Arslan's feet, head bowed down to his chest in slumber. His instrument was on his lap, and with sudden shock Arslan remembered the darkest depths of his dreams, the faces and the screams, and above all, the sounds of music that accompanied him and guided him home.

He felt tears prickling his eyes, felt like his heart would burst in his chest, but he made no move to rise again. They all, to a person, looked completely and utterly exhausted. He didn't know how much time has passed since that fateful meal, or what exactly transpired when he was fighting for his life, but he could imagine the frantic and desperate days spent between hunting for an assassin, looking for a cure, and being here, with him, when he needed them most.

Later, there will be hundreds of things to worry about. Decisions to make, plans to alter. He'll talk with every one of them and thank them for what they did, and he was sure that they will have many things to tell him, in turn.

But they all deserved they rest now.

He felt gratitude, and admiration, and love, so much love. These people picked him up when he was just a hopeless prince from a fallen country, they fought for him and guided him, they followed him into exile, and now, _now,_ snatched him from the gates of hell itself and brought him back again.

And in that small room, graying with sunrise and filled with quiet breathing of seven sleeping people, he made a silent promise to one day become a man worthy of everything they had done for him.


End file.
